3  1210018386415 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CAL'FCRNIA 
RIVERSIDE 


WHE1* 

THE 

LEAVES 
COME 


BY 

RALPH 
CHAPLIN 


WHEN  THE 
LEAVES 
COME  OUT 


WHEN  THE  LEAVES 
COME  OUT 

AND   OTHER  REBEL  VERSES 
BY 

RALPH   CHAPLIN 
V 


MIlLlllLli 


T53505 


COPYRIGHT 

RALPH   CHAPLIN 

1917 


CONTENTS 

Salaam  you  Scissorbills 1 

The  Commonwealth  of  Toil 4 

The  West  is  Dead 5 

When  the  Leaves  Come  Out 6 

May  Day  Song 7 

The  Red  Feast 8 

Sabotage 10 

What  the  Satyr  Sang 11 

Preparedness 12 

The  Cbnquest  of  the  Earth 13 

Too  Rotten  Rank  for  Hell 18 

You  Preachers  of  "Morals" 19 

"Come  Unto  Me" 20 

The  Warrior  and  the  Beast 21 

The  Eunuch 22 

Respectability 23 

Slaves  to  the  Slaughter 24 

Hey!    Polly 26 

Returning 27 

Solidarity  Forever 28 

The  Prawblem  Sawlver 30 

The  Mine  Guard 31 

Joe  Hill 32 

Up  From  Your  Knees 33 

The  Ghost  Walks 34 

Good  Slaves  and  Springtime 35 

A  Memory 36 

The  Rubaiyat  of  a  Harvest  Stiff 37 

Mexico 40 

The  Jungle  Stream 41 

The  Slave,  the  Nautch  Girl  and  the  Cobra 42 

The  Kanawha  Striker 43 

What  Happened  in  the  Hollow 44 

The  Alarm 53 

Kismet .  54 


We  are  indebted  to  "The  Masses" 
for  the  use  of  the  beautiful  Draw- 
ing by  Charles  A.  Winter  used  on 
the  cover  of  this  book. 
The  decorative  headings  were  de- 
signed by  the  author. 


SALAAM,  YOU  SC1SSORBILLS 

Serene,  complacent,  satisfied; 

Content  with  things  that  be — 
The  paragon  of  paltriness 

Upraised  for  all  to  see. 
With  loving  pride  he  cherishes 

His  Mediocrity! 

The  smirking,  ass-like  multitudes 
Cringe  down  at  his  command. 

With  wagging  ears  and  blinded  eyes 
They  do  not  understand. 

With  pride  they  show  each  shackled  wrist 
And  on  each  brow  the  brand. 

The  young,  the  old,  the  great,  the  small 

Give  homage — all  supine. 
Fond  parents  bring  their  children  there 

As  to  some  holy  shrine. 
And  every  one  the  Beast  transforms 

From  Human  into  swine! 

Well  praised  are  they — rewarded  well — 

Who  on  their  shoulders  bore 
The  gilded  Thing  that  all  the  mob 

Fawned  in  the  dust  before, 
And  each  that  did  obeisance  therez 

Was  naked  like  a  whore. 


The  poet  with  his  teeming  song, 
The  wise  his  deep-delved  lore, 

The  maiden  with  her  tender  flesh, 
The  strong  his  sturdy  store; 

Each  yielded  all  he  had  to  give, 
No  harlot  could  do  more. 

Is  there  not  one  to  share  with  me 
The  shame  and  wrath  I  own, 

Is  there  not  one  to  curse  that  Thing 
Or  pick  up  stones  to  stone — 

To  rend  and  wreck  and  raze  to  earth ; 
Or  do  I  stand  alone? 

Raise  high  the  swine-like  incubus, 

Obediently  bow! 
Shout  down  the  voice  of  bold  dissent 

And  wreath  that  brazen  brow. 
So  blaze  the  banners,  ring  the  bells — 

Apotheosis  now! 

Go,  grovel  for  the  shoddy  goods 
And  plod  and  plot  and  plan, 

And  if  you  win  the  paltry  prize 
Go  prize  it  if  you  can, 

But  I  would  hurl  it  in  your  face 
To  hold  myself  a  man! 

I  will  not  bow  with  that  mad  horde 

And  passively  obey. 
I  will  not  think  their  sordid  thoughts, 

Nor  say  the  things  they  say, 
Nor  wear  their  shameful  liveries, 

Nor  branded  be  as  they. 


r.r,Ei.F-in 


Nor  can  they  bend  me  to  their  will 
Though  black  their  numbers  swell, 

Nor  bribe  with  hopes  of  paradise 
Nor  force  with  fears  of  hell ; 

Me  they  may  break,  but  never  bend — 
I  live  but  to  rebel. 

I  go  my  way  rejoicingly, 

I,  outcast,  spurned  and  low; 
But  undreamed  worlds  may  come  to  birth 

From  seeds  that  I  may  sow, 
And  if  there's  pain  within  my  heart 

Those  fools  shall  never  know. 

My  kind  but  scorn  your  dull  "success" — 

Your  subtle  ways  to  "win," 
We  eat  our  hearts  in  solitude 

Or  sear  our  souls  with  "sin"; 
Yet  we  are  better  men  than  you 

Who  fit  so  smugly  in. 

Then  let  me  stand  back  silently, 

The  pageant  passes  by, 
And  live  my  life  with  "outcasts" 

Whom  your  hands  would  crucify, 
And  laugh  with  mirth  to  see  the  mob 

Do  homage  to  a  Lie! 


THE  COMMONWEALTH  OF  TOIL 

(Air:  "Nellie  Grey") 

In  the  gloom  of  mighty  cities, 
Mid  the  roar  of  whirling  wheels, 

We  are  toiling  on  like  chattel  slaves  of  old, 
And  our  masters  hope  to  keep  us 
Ever  thus  beneath  their  heels, 

And  to  coin  our  very  life-blood  into  gold. 

CHORUS 

But  we  have  a  glowing  dream 
Of  how  fair  the  world  will  seem 

When  each  man  can  live  his  life  secure  and  free. 
When  the  earth  is  owned  by  Labor 
And  there's  joy  and  peace  for  all 

In  the  Commonwealth  of  Toil  that  is  to  be. 

They  would  keep  us  cowed  and  beaten 
Cringing  meekly  at  their  feet. 

They  would  stand  between  each  worker  and  his 

bread. 

Shall  we  yield  our  lives  up  to  them 
For  the  bitter  crusts  we  eat? 

Shall  we  only  hope  for  heaven  when  we're  dead? 

They  have  laid  our  lives  out  for  us 
To  the  utter  end  of  time. 

Shall  we  stagger  on  beneath  their  heavy  load  ? 
Shall  we  let  them  live  forever 

In  their  gilded  halls  of  crime 

With  our  children  doomed  to  toil  beneath  their 
goad? 


When  our  cause  is  all  triumphant 
And  we  claim  our  Mother  Earth, 

And  the  nightmare  of  the  present  fades    away, 
We  shall  live  with  Love  and  Laughter, 
We,  who  now  are  little  worth, 

And  we'll  not  regret  the  price  we  have  to  pay. 


THE  WEST  IS  DEAD 

What  path  is  left  for  you  to  tread 

When  Hunger-wolves  are  slinking  near- 
Do  you  not  know  the  West  is  dead? 

The  "blanket-stiff"  now  packs  his  bed 

Along  the  trails  of  yesteryear. 
What  path  is  left  for  you  to  tread  ? 

Your  fathers,  golden  sunsets  led 

To  virgin  prairies  wide  and  clear. 
Do  you  not  know  the  West  is  dead? 

Now  dismal  cities  rise  instead 

And  freedom  is  not  there  nor  here — 
What  path  is  left  for  you  to  tread? 

Your  fathers'  world,  for  which  they  bled, 

Is  fenced  and  settled  far  and  near — 
Do  you  not  know  the  West  is  dead? 

Your  fathers  gained  a  crust  of  bread, 
Their  bones  bleach  on  the  lost  frontier; 

What  path  is  left  for  you  to  tread — 
Do  you  not  know  the  West  is  dead? 


WHEN  THE  LEAVES  COME  OUT 

The  hills  are  very  bare  and  cold  and  lonely ; 

I  wonder  what  the  future  months  will  bring? 
The  strike  is  on — our  strength  would  win,  if  only — 

O,  Buddy,  how  I'm  longing  for  the  spring! 

They've  got  us  down — their  martial  lines  enfold  us; 

They've  thrown  us  out  to  feel  the  winter's  sting, 
And  yet,  by  God,  those  curs  can  never  hold  us, 

Nor  could  the  dogs  of  hell  do  such  a  thing! 

It  isn't  just  to  see  the  hills  beside  me 
Grow  fresh  and  green  with  every  growing  thing; 

I  only  want  the  leaves  to  come  and  hide  me, 
To  cover  up  my  vengeful  wandering. 

I  will  not  watch  the  floating  clouds  that  hover 
Above  the  birds  that  warble  on  the  wing ; 

I  want  to  use  this  GUN  from  under  cover — 
O,  Buddy,  ho     I'm  longing  for  the  spring! 

You  see  them  there,  below,  the  damned  scab-herders! 

Those  puppets  on  the  greedy  owners'  string; 
We'll  make  them  pay  for  all  their  dirty  murders — 

We'll  show  them  how  a  starving  hate  can  sting! 

They  riddled  us  with  volley  after  volley; 

We  heard  their  speeding  bullets  zip  and  ring, 
But  soon  we'll  make  them  suffer  for  their  folly — 

Oh,  Buddy,  how  I'm  longing  for  the  spring! 

Paint  Creek,  W.  Va.,  1913 
6 


MAY  DAY  SONG 

(Air:  "Flag  of  the  Free") 

O,  Labor  Day,  O,  First  of  May, 

Welcome  and  honored  on  land  and  on  sea. 
Winter  so  drear  must  disappear, 

Fair  days  are  coming  for  you  and  for  me. 
We,  of  the  old  world,  building  the  New, 
Ours  is  the  will  and  the  power  to  do; 

Then  let  us  sing,  hail  to  the  Spring — 
Hail  to  the  Day  we  can  strike  to  be  free! 

Banner  so  red,  high  overhead, 

Flated  and  feared  by  the  powers  that  be! 
In  every  land  firmly  we  stand; 

Men  of  all  nations  who  labor  are  we. 
Under  one  banner,  standing  as  one, 
Claiming  the  earth  and  our  place  in  the  sun. 

Then  let  us  sing,  hail  to  the  Spring — 
Hail  to  the  Day  we  can  strike  to  be  free! 

O,  Labor  Day,  O,  First  of  May, 

Warm  with  the  gleam  of  the  bright  days  to  be! 
Join  in  the  throng,  fearless  and  strong, — 

One  mighty  Union  of  world  industry. 
Shoulder  to  shoulder,  each  in  his  place, 
Ours  is  the  hope  of  the  whole  human  race. 

Then  let  us  sing,  hail  to  the  Spring — 
Hail  to  the  Day  we  can  strike  to  be  free! 


THE  RED  FEAST 

Go  fight,  you  fools,  your  needless,  gainless  strife 
And  spill  each  others  guts  upon  the  field! 

Serve  unto  death  the  men  you  served  in  life 
So  that  their  wide  dominions  may  not  yield. 

Stand  by  the  flag — the  lie  that  still  allures — 
Lay  down  your  lives  for  land  you  do  not  own. 

And  give  unto  a  war  that  is  not  yours 

Your  gory  tithe  of  mangled  flesh  and  bone. 

Ah,  slaves,  you  fight  your  masters'  battles  well — 
The  reek  of  rotting  carnage  fills  the  air! 

Your  swollen  bodies  yield  their  noisome  smell, 
Sweet  incense  to  the  ghouls  who  sent  you  there  .  . 

A  feast  of  mothers'  pain  is  here  laid  low 
For  swarming  insects  hovering  on  high. 

Grey  rats,  red  muzzled  through  the  trenches  go 
Where  your  death-tortured  features  face  the  sky. 

The  maggots  riot  now  on  rotting  men. 

The  grass  is  greener  than  it  was  before. 
But  as  the  dead  cannot  return  again 

The  ones  who  live  must  wage  another  war. 

So  stagger  back,  you  stupid  dupes  who've  "won", 
Back  to  your  stricken  towns  to  toil  anew, 

For  there  your  dismal  tasks  are  still  undone, 
And  grim  Starvation  gropes  again  for  you. 

What  matters  now  your  flag,  your  race,  the  skill 
Of  scattered  legions — what  has  been  the  gain? 

Once  more  beneath  the  lash  you  must  distil 
Your  lives  to  glut  a  glory  wrought  of  pain. 

8 


In  peace  they  starve  you  to  your  loathsome  toil, 
In  war  they  drive  you  to  the  teeth  of  Death; 

And  when  your  life-blood  soaks  into  their  soil 
They  give  you  lies  to  choke  your  dying  breath. 

So  will  they  smite  your  blind  eyes  till  you  see, 
And  lash  your  naked  backs  until  you  know 

That  wasted  blood  can  never  set  you  free 

From  fettered  thralldom  to  the  Common  Foe. 

Then  you  will  find  that  "Nation"  is  a  name; 

That  boundaries  are  things  that  don't  exist; 
That  Labor's  bondage,  worldwide,  is  the  same, 

And  ONE  the  enemy  it  must  resist! 

Montreal,  P.  Q. 
1914 


SABOTAGE 

(Air:  "Illinois") 
There's  a  word  of  wond'rous  meaning, 

Sabotage,  Sabotage, 
There's  a  harvest  ripe  for  gleaning, 

Sabotage,  Sabotage; 
Though  they  gouge  us  as  they  will 
In  the  shop  or  in  the  mill, 
There's  a  power  we  have  still, 

Sabotage,  Sabotage, 
There's  a  power  we  have  still, 

Sabotage,  Sabotage. 
It's  the  lesson  they  have  taught  us, 

Sabotage,  Sabotage; 
We  will  fight  them  as  they  fought  us, 

Sabotage,  Sabotage, 
There's  a  rotten  hold-up  game 
"Exploitation"  is  its  name, 
We  can  "sabot"  just  the  same, 

Sabotage,  Sabotage, 
We  can  "sabot"  just  the  same, 

Sabotage,  Sabotage. 
There's  a  word  that  bears  repeating, 

Sabotage,  Sabotage, 
There's  a  force  there's  no  defeating, 

Sabotage,  Sabotage, 
With  our  backs  against  the  wall, 
Listen  to  our  ringing  call, — 
Are  we  beaten?  not  at  all, 

Sabotage,  Sabotage, 
Are  we  beaten?  not  at  all, — 

Sabotage,  Sabotage. 

10 


WHAT  THE    SATYR    SANG 

A  wild  flood  of  images  fills  rne, 

Dim  pictures  I  cannot  define ; 
An  ecstatic  wonderment  thrills  me, 

A  loveliness  dream-like,  divine; 
A  maid  in  the  mist-hazy  heather — 

A  world  that  can  never  be  mine. 

O  maid  of  the  mist-hazy  heather, 
Diaphanous  nymph  of  the  night ; 

O  come,  let  us  hasten  together 
To  some  hidden  vale  of  delight. 

The  dark  woods  are  dream-lands  of  shadow, 
The  mist  is  the  mantle  of  white. 

Let  us  roam  through  the  honey-sweet  flowers 
As  the  scent-heavy  petals  unfold, 

Let  us  harvest  a  bright  sheath  of  hours 
While  the  wet  moon  is  circled  with  gold. 

Let  us  gambol  and  frolic  and  dally 
As  we  did  on  the  hillsides  of  old. 

A  hot  flood  of  eagerness  fills  me, 

More  wond'rous  than  dream-working  wine, 
The  far  call  of  memory  thrills  me; 

My  hand  groping  blindly  for  thine  .    .    . 
But  the  days  of  the  Earth-Love  have  vanished- 

The  world  that  can  never  be  mine. 


11 


PREPAREDNESS 

For  freedom  die?    But  we  were  never  free 

Save  but  to  drudge  and  starve,  or  strike  and  feel 
The  bite  of  bullets  and  the  thrust  of  steel. 

For  freedom  die!     While  we  have  eyes  to  see 
How  children  writhe  beneath  thy  crushing  heel 

And  mothers  shudder  at  the  thought  of  thee! 
For  freedom  die  .    .    .  ? 

Defend  the  flag?     Beneath  whose  reeking  fold 
The  gunmen  of  our  masters  always  came 
To  burn  and  rape  and  murder  in  thy  name! 

Defend  a  flag  to  profit  gluttons  sold— 

Trade  smirched  until  it  is  a  thing  of  shame — 

The  bartered  paramour  of  Greed  and  Gold — 
Defend  the  flag  .    .    .  ? 

Protect  our  land?     We  who  are  dispossessed, 

And  own  not  space  to  sleep  in  when  we  die! 

"Our"  land  is  held  by  haughty  thieves  on  high — 
The  brood  of  vipers  sheltered  at  thy  breast. 

Our  "liberty"  is  but  a  loathsome  lie; 
We  have  no  homes  nor  any  place  to  rest — 

Protect  our  land  .    .    .  ? 

Resist  the  foe?     We  shalll     From  sea  to  sea 

The  vile  invaders'  battle  line  is  thrown ; 

This  is  the  workers'  war  and  this  alone, 
To  battle  with  the  Thieves  of  Industry 

Whose  wealth  is  red  with  mangled  flesh  and  bone. 
Resist  the  foe?     Ah,  crush  him  utterly— 

Resist  the  foe  .    .    . !!! 


12 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  THE    EARTH 

The  War  is  on— a  growing  storm  against  your  outposts 

hurled. 

It  is  no  war  of  compromise;  the  death-flag  is  unfurled. 
The  armies  of  the  dispossessed  lay  siege  unto  the 

world. 
This   is  our  war — our  Holy  War — the  final  Social 

Strife. 

No  mercy  do  we  ask  or  give — no  other  prize  but  Life ; 
A  war  to  win  or  lose  the  world — a  battle  to  the  knife. 
Too  long  you  gouged  us  one  by  one,  and  gloried  in  our 

fall, 
Or  when  we  fought  dividedly  you  crushed  us  to  the 

wall; 

But  now  we  know  the  hurt  of  one  is  injury  to  all. 
No  flags  or  tongues  keep  us  apart;  our  creed  is  to  be 

free. 

The  only  Fatherland  we  have  is  world- wide  Industry. 
Where  ere  we  toil  we  face  the  foe — our  Common  Enemy. 
Too  long  we  drudged  like  driven  beasts  beneath  your 

iron  sway; 
Too  long  we  faced,  diverted,  dumb,  your  hell-hounds 

in  the  fray ; 
Now  WAR  is  on  and  YOU'RE  the  one  to  settle  and 

to  pay. 
In  One  Big  Union  now  we  stand,  the  world  to  gain  and 

own, 

And  in  your  beastly  ugly  face  our  battle-cry  is  thrown. 
The  earth  with  all  its  unborn  wealth  is  OURS  and 

ours  ALONE. 

13 


Our  weapons  are  "your"  vast  machines;  they  answer 

to  OUR  call. 
The   hands   that   guide   them   rule   the   world — the 

greatest  force  of  all — 
A  power  so  mighty  that  it  makes  all  other  power 

small. 

What  will  you  say  when  that  Day  comes,  when  on 

the  land  and  sea 
Your  sullen  slaves  have  seen  the  Light  of  better  times 

to  be, 
And  leave  their  tasks  to  toil  no  more  until  they  can 

be  free? 

When  wheels  and  drills  and  looms  will  cease  and  each 

tool  idle  stands, 
And  mines  and  mills  and  factories  are  silent  in  all 

lands — 
When  you  are  driven  forth  to  earn  your  living  with 

your  hands? 

Ah,  do  not  drivel  platitudes  at  anything  we  do, 

The   dirty   weapons    you   have   used   will    suit  our 

purpose  too. 
And  we  will  pay  you  back  in  full  just  as  we  learned 

from  you! 

For  in  our  strong,  hard  hands  we  hold  a  sure,  resistless 

might, 

More  terrible  than  all  your  lies  or  guns  and  dynamite. 
(What  e'er  is  good  for  you  is  "wrong";  what's  good 

for  us  is  "right.") 

You    kept    us    in    uncertainty,    heart-hopeless    and 

afraid. 
You  gave  us  cast-off  crusts  and  rags,  and  claimed  that 

we  were  "paid," 
You  blighted  us  to  suit  your  needs,  then  mocked  the 

thing  you  made. 

14 


It  seems  the  sight  of  your  black  deeds  would  daily 

haunt  your  mind, 
The  bodies  that  you  rob  and  wreck,  the  souls  you 

warp  and  grind; 
But  you  grow  greedier  each  day — more  ravening  and 

blind. 

In  spite  of  ceaseless  golden  streams  that  in  your  cof- 
fers pour — 

More  wealth  than  you  can  use  or  waste — you  clamor 
still  for  gore; 

You  gouge  and  squeeze  and  clutch  and  scream  for 
more  and  more  and  MORE. 

Your  narrow  eyes  see  but  the  "game,"  your  mouth 

is  hard  with  sneers. 
The  only  time  you'll  feel  the  touch  of  human  woe  and 

tears 
Is  when  the  sudden  cyclone  roars  around  your  very 

ears. 

You  boasted,  swollen  with  your  pride,  "I  am  because 

I  am"; 
You  flashed  the  scrawls  that  made  you  great — your 

printed  paper  sham ; 
Take  one  long  loving  look  at  them ;  they  are  not  worth 

a  damni 

They  do  not  mean  a  thing  to  us;  our  hate-forged 

strength  is  sweet, 
And  all  your  "holy"  codes  and  "laws"  we  trample 

with  our  feet ; 
Not  all  your  lawyers,  soldiers,  priests  can  save  you 

from  defeat. 

For  you're  a  loathsome  outlawed   thing — a  greed- 

fanged  parasite, 

An  enemy  of  humankind  without  a  single  "right" — 
The  stolen   plunder  that  you  prize  is  ours  to  take  on 

sight. 

15 


You  are  like  rattlesnake  or  vermin  red  with  lust. 
You  are  a  mad-dog  hot  for  blood  that  bites  because 

it  must; 
A  thing  to  spit  upon  and  curse  and  stamp  into  the 

dust. 

For  your  syphilitic  sons  would  keep  the  Future  Race 

in  chains; 
Grow  fat  in  lustful  luxury  from  hired  hands  and 

brains, 
And  drench  the  earth,  as  you  have  done,  for  greater, 

richer  gains! 

But  we've  declared  a  War  on  you — decreed  that  you 

must  fall! 
Do  you  demand  that  WE  make  some  portion  large  or 

small? 
You  have  no  valid  right  or  claim  to  ANY  share  at  all! 

War  rages  now   beneath   your   walls — around   your 

marble  towers 
Where  you  enjoy  the  bloody  feast  mid  wine  and  song 

and  flowers; 
And  soon  we'll  make  your  life  and  bread  as  safe  as 

you  made  ours. 

WE  made  the  mills,  WE  dug  the  mines,  WE  laid  the 

shining  rails, 
We  filled  those  golden  coffers  full,  we  spread  your 

Argo  sails; 
And  now  we  sweep  you  from  the  earth  with  force 

that  never  fails. 

For  it  is  OURS  and  ONLY  ours,  this  world  is  ours 

alone. 
OURS  are  the  hands  that  dug  and  reaped  those  riches 

heaven  thrown. 
We  plant  the  Red  Flag  on  it  ALL  and  claim  it  as  our 

own. 

16 


The  torpid  ages  travailed  long  while  systems  died  and 

grew, 
Until  the  final  hour  struck  that  sounded  DOOM  for 

you; 
You  are  the  Past,  the  Dead,  the  Dust ;  we  Heralds  of 

the  New. 

We  are  the  Herators  of  Time,  not  outcasts  of  despair — 
The  Builders  of  a  gleaming  world,  the  Future,  calm 

and  fair; 
And  we've  starved  through  your  dismal   night  to 

feast  in  plenty  there. 

We  want  this  world  for  all  who  work — a  heritage  by 

birth; 
We  want  as  "paY "  the  fullest  joy  that  Human  Life 

is  worth: 
We  therefore  start  the  New  Crusade  the  Conquest  of 

the  Earth. 

From  out  the  reeking  hells  of  greed  where  we  have 

delved  and  spun 
We'll  stream  forth  with  a  ringing  song,  the  Final 

Battle  won, 
To  find  upon  the  fair  green  earth  our  place  within  the 

sun! 

The  War  is  on — a  howling  storm — against  your  fast- 
ness hurled. 

Our  battle-line  now  girts  the  globe,  the  death-flag  is 
unfurled. 

We,  who  have  slaved  and  slept  and  bled,  shall  soon 
possess  the  world*. 


17 


TOO  ROTTEN  RANK  FOR  HELL 

(Dedicated   to   the   Journalistic   Prostitutes   of 
Capitalism) 

The  Devil  stood,  as  a  devil  should, 

Near  a  pit  of  burning  coals, 
And  without  a  word  his  red  imps  stirred 

A  stew  of  dead  men's  souls. 
And  the  caldron  hubbled  and  bubbled  and  boiled, 
And  the  red  imps  hurried  and  scurried  and  toiled, 
And  the  vapors  were  whirling  and  curling  that  coiled 

From  the  stew  of  dead  men's  souls. 

The  soul  of  a  witch  and  a  red-eyed  bitch 

That  was  born  in  a  black  eclipse. 
A  detective  or  two,  were  thrown  into  the  stew, 

And  the  Devil  smacked  his  lips. 
A  preacher,  a  pimp,  and  a  boot-licking  slave, 
A  bugger,  a  slugger,  a  light-fingered  knave, 
A  "stool"  and  a  ghoul  who  had  opened  a  grave  .    .    . 

And  the  Devil  smacked  his  lips. 

Said  he  "Make  it  rougher  and  ranker  and  tougher 

I  am  sick  of  the  likes  of  these; 
So  they  brought  a  mine-guard  with  his  yellow-leg 
pard  .    .    . 

No,  something  still  rottener,  please 
"They're  as  shameless  and  nameless  as  any  I  meet, 
And  as  foul  as  I  make  'em  or  take  'em  to  eat, 
But  I  now  wish  a  lavishing,  ravishing  treat 

Of  something  still  rottener,  please." 

18 


So  the  red  imps  raced  in  hellish  haste 

To  seek  for  the  very  worst. 
And  when  in  the  stew  this  soul  they  threw  .    .    . 

The  Devil  groaned  and  cursed  .    .    . 
THAT  .  .  .  Newspaper-Truth-raper  .  .  HERE  .  .  . 

at  THIS  time  .    .    .! 

The  lecherous,  treacherous  creature  of  slime  .    .    . ! 
The  vomit-brained  harlot  all  scarlet  with  crime  .  .  . !!! 

And  the  Devil  groaned  and  cursed. 

Now  each  poor  imp  has  got  to  limp, 

Their  bruises  ache  and  swell, 
The  soul  they  had  was  stinking  bad — 

Too  rotten  rank  for  hell! 

And  the  caldron  hubbled  and  bubbled  and  boiled, 
And  the  Devil's  ravishing  treat  was  spoiled, 
And  he  SHRANK  from  the  vapors  that  curled  and 
coiled — 

TOO  ROTTEN  RANK  FOR  HELL! 


YOU  PREACHERS  OF  "MORALS" 

You  bolster  Exploitation  with  your  creed 
Though  blood  upon  its  whiplash  never  dries. 
You  do  the  work  of  hired  thugs  and  spies ; 

Like  them  you  serve  the  System  for  your  "feed." 

The  World's  great  Wrong  cries  out:  you  do  not  heed, 
But  drivel  rot  with  heaven-uplifted  eyes, 
Then  creep  away  behind  a  cloud  of  lies 

To  kiss  the  palsied  hand  of  murderous  Greed. 

This  is  the  work  for  which  you  get  your  pay : 
To  keep  the  world  unchanged  in  sullen  "peace" 
Where  serf-men  toil  at  tasks  that  never  cease, 

Heartbrokenly  from  bitter  day  to  day — 
The  Crime  upheld  by  preachers  and  police 

Where  Lust,  unhindered,  battens  on  its  prey! 

19 


? 


"COME  UNTO  ME..." 

(New  York,  1914) 

The  night  we  came  from  out  the  drifting  snow 

The  winds  were  bitter  and  the  streets  were  drear; 
You  drove  us  forth  who  knew  not  where  to  go. 

We  homeless  "bums"  had  watched  the  blizzard  grow — 

The  ghastliest  and  wildest  of  the  year — 
The  night  we  came  from  out  the  drifting  snow. 

But  how  could  God's  anointed  ever  know 

What  Hunger  means  when  Want  and  Cold  are  near — 
You  drove  us  forth  who  knew  not  where  to  go. 

We  knew  your  piety  for  empty  show, 

But  still  your  pillared  church  was  warm  with  cheer 
The  night  we  came  from  out  the  drifting  snow. 

Some  day  an  earth-uprooting  storm  may  blow 

Your  haughty  temples  full  of  screaming  fear — 
You  drove  us  forth  who  knew  not  where  to  go! 

Then  you'll  remember  how  you  scoffed  at  woe 

And  met  a  plea  for  shelter  with  a  sneer. 
The  night  we  came  from  out  the  drifting  snow 

You  drove  us  forth  who  knew  not  where  to  gol 


20 


THE  WARRIOR  AND  THE  BEAST 

Guerrero's  dead!  with  radiant  face  he  strode 
\    Into  the  seething  maelstrom  of  your  hate, 
And  thronging  thousands  follow  on  the  road 
To  feed  or  crush  the  beast  insatiate. 
For  warriors  die  and  glory  in  their  fate 
And  laugh  at  Death — at  Death  the  desolate. 

Guerrero  dead?    His  name  is  dazzling  light! 

For  heroes  slain  are  never  heroes  dead, 
They  live  to  guide  their  brothers  in  the  fight, 

And  tyrants  fear  when  armies  thus  are  led. 

So  take  those  ghastly  laurels  from  your  head, 

But  see!    Your  hands  are  dripping,  dripping  red. 

Guerrero  lives!    This  man  you  cannot  kill, 
His  deathless  life  illuminates  the  east, 

His  thousands  quake  your  fastness  on  the  hill ; 

Live  on!    Live  on!    nor  stop  the  blood-stained  feast, 

A  little  longer  live  to  learn  at  least 

That  Mexico  wants  MEN,  and  not  a  BEAST. 

Chicago,  Illinois, 
January  the  22nd,  191 1 


The  name  "Guerrero"  means  "warrior"  in  Span- 
ish. Porfirio  Diaz  is  remembered  commonly  as  "la  vieja 
bestia" — the  old  beast. 


21 


THE    EUNUCH 

(To  those  who  will  not,  dare  not,  cannot — rebel.) 

Once  a  Eunuch  by  the  palace 
In  the  fading  sunset  glow, 
Felt  the  warm  soft  breezes  blow; 

Watched  the  fair  girls  of  the  harem 
Idly  saunter  to  and  fro. 

Saw  he  beauty  young  and  lavish 
Fierce  to  lure  man's  every  sense  .... 
(Grim  the  Eunuch  stood  and  tense.) 

Laughingly  the  sparkling  fountain 
Mocked  his  bleak  incompetence. 

Came  the  Sultan  from  his  hunting 

Flaming  with  the  zest  of  life; 

(Laid  aside  were  spear  and  knife ;) 
Came  for  wine  and  song  and  feasting, 

Came  to  seek  his  fairest  wife. 

Opened  then  the  marble  portals; 

Fragrant  incense  filled  the  air, 

(Sandalwood  and  roses  rare,) 
While  the  girls  with  red-lipped  languor 

Scattered  flowers  everywhere. 

Far  away  the  fabled  mountains 
(Like  some  paradise  of  old) 
Glowed  with  lavender  and  gold; 

Tense  the  Eunuch  stood  and  silent — 
Tense  and  sullen,  tense  and  cold. 

22 


Now  a  quick  impotent  fury 

Lashed  him  like  a  bronze-tipped  cord. 

Sprang  he  at  the  youthful  lord; 
Sprang  again  with  blade  all  bloody  .    . 

(Famished  lust  and  dripping  sword!) 

Night  crept  on  all  chill  and  ghastly. 

Jackals  trotted  forth  to  bark. 

(Murder  shuddered,  still  and  stark  .    . 
By  the  palace  ceased  the  fountain 

And  the  whole  grey  world  grew  dark. 


RESPECTABILITY 

You  whitened  sepulchre  of  Christian  grace ; 

You  saintly,  honored,  holy — hideous  thing! 

You  smother  Truth  with  raucous  gibbering ; 
You  hide  your  rotting  sores  with  silk  and  lace; 
You  lavish  loathsome  gifts  of  gold  and  place 

On  whorish  fools  who  praise  you  as  their  king — 

Who  crucify  your  foes  while  church-bells  ring  .   . 
But  blest  be  they  who  spit  into  your  face*. 

Go,  girt  yourself  with  your  dull  panoply. 

Make  sharp  with  thorns  the  paths  men  travel  in. 

Upraise  your  blood-cry  with  infernal  din — 
You  Larva  of  the  Past,  but,  ah,  for  me, 

How  better  far  to  live  with  leprous  sin 
Than  reek  and  rot  with  your  innanity! 


23 


SLAVES,  TO  THE   SLAUGHTER! 

The  drums  roll  forth  their  summons, 

The  war-like  bugles  thrill, 
From  here  and  there  and  everywhere 
The  slaves  are  given  arms  to  bear 

Some  other  slaves  to  kill. 

Each  one  must  do  his  "duty" — 

Must  find  warm  blood  to  spill ; 
For  "wrong"  or  "right,"  with  dread  or  spite, 
Although  HE  has  no  cause  to  fight; — 

It  is  his  master's  will. 

He  leaves  his  wife  or  mother, 

He  learns  to  march  and  drill, 
For  wise  men  say,  "Ah,  haste  the  day 
When  you  can  stab  and  shoot  and  slay — 

God  bless  you  while— YOU  KILL!" 

They  praise  him  in  the  papers 

With  patriotic  swill ; 
They  dress  him  in  a  gaudy  suit 
And  teach  him  how  to  aim  and  shoot, 

Then  send  him  forth  to — KILL. 

The  "lawful"  zealots  laud  him, 

(Their  guarded  codes  are  nil) 
In  accents  loud  they  tell  the  crowd 
That  "lawful"  murder  is  allowed; 

It  IS  NO  CRIME  TO  KILL. 


24 


He  marches  down  the  highway, 

The  cheers  ring  loud  and  shrill ; 
With  deadly  weapons  in  his  hand 
He  leaves  "his  own  dear  native  land" 
Some  corpse  strewn  trench  to  fill. 

They  lead  him  to  the  "enemy" 

To  prove  his  warlike  skill; 
He  knows  not  who,  he  knows  not  why, 
But  some  poor  slave  has  got  to  die 

For  he  is  there— TO  KILL. 

Beneath  his  masters'  banner, 

Before  his  masters'  hill, 
Unto  his  masters'  god  he'll  pray 
(Slave  seeking  courage  slaves  to  slay) 

And  aid  "divine"  to  kill. 

Then  comes  MACHINE  MADE  MURDER 
The  strongest  hearts  are  still  .    .    . 

And  many  a  slave  has  found  a  grave 

In  gory  sod  or  a  crimson  wave — 
YEA,  OF  HIS  OWN  SWEET  WILL. 

The  workers  have  THEIR  struggle — 

Their  war  to  wage — until 
It  comes  to  pass  the  workingclass 
Beneath  its  OWN  red  flag  shall  mass, 

The  world  with  joy  to  fill. 

Unite!  unite!  for  your  own  fight, 

In  mine  and  shop  and  mill; 
How  better  far  such  battles  are 
Than  all  the  streaming  ways  of  war 

Where  slaves  fight  slaves  TO  KILL! 


25 


HEY!    POLLY 
(Tune:  "Yankee  Doodle") 

The  politician  prowls  around 
For  workers'  votes  entreating. 

He  claims  to  knows  the  slickest  way 
To  give  the  boss  a  beating. 

CHORUS 

Polly,  we  can't  use  you,  dear, 

To  lead  us  into  clover; 
This  fight  is  ours  and  as  for  you, 

Clean  out  or  get  run  over. 

He  claims  to  be  the  bosses  foe 
On  workers'  friendship  doting. 

He  says,  "Don't  fight  while  on  the  job, 
But  do  it  all  by  voting. 

Elect  Me  to  the  office,  boys, 
Let  all  your  rage  pass  o'er  you; 

Don't  bother  with  your  countless  wrongs, 
I'LL  do  your  fighting  for  you." 

He  says  that  sabotage  won't  do, 

(It  isn't  to  his  liking) 
And  that  without  HIS  mighty  aid 

There  is  no  use  in  striking. 

He  says  that  he  can  lead  us  all 

To  some  fair  El  Dorado, 
But  he's  of  such  a  yellow  hue 

He'd  cast  a  golden  shadow! 


26 


He  begs  and  coaxes,  threatens,  yells, 
For  shallow  glory  thirsting, 

In  fact  he's  but  a  bag  of  wind 
That's  swollen  up  to  bursting. 

The  smiling  bosses  think  he'd  like 
To  boodle  from  their  manger; 

And  as  he  never  mentions  STRIKE, 
They  know  there  is  no  danger. 

And  all  the  while  he  spouts  and  spiels 

He's  musing  undetected 
On  what  a  helluva  snap  he'll  have 

When  once  he  is  elected! 


KETUFkNING 

The  scene  is  wan  with  fading  light, 
The  trees  are  drooped  in  hazy  dreams, 
A  far-off  cottage  window  gleams — 

A  tiny  beacon,  lone  and  bright. 

The  evening  sounds  are  faintly  clear — 
An  echo  of  the  workday  strife, 
While  thrilling  with  a  strange  new  life 

A  hidden  bird  is  warbling  near. 

And  one  rough  shadow,  blurred  and  grey, 
Creeps  slowly  on  with  feet  of  lead — 
A  slave  who  trudges  home  to  bed 

To  rest  him  for  another  day. 

He  pauses  as  he  passes  by 

To  catch  each  liquid  dream-like  note; 

A  sob  has  risen  in  his  throat 
Somehow,  without  him  knowing  why.     . 


27 


SOLIDARITY  FOREVER 

(Air:  "John  Brown's  Body") 

When  the  Union's  inspiration 

Through  the  Workers'  blood  shall  run 
There  can  be  no  power  greater 

Anywhere  beneath  the  sun. 
Yet  what  force  on  earth  is  weaker 

Than  the  feeble  strength  of  one? 
But  the  Union  makes  us  strong. 

CHORUS 

Solidarty  forever! 

Solidarity  forever! 

Solidarity  forever! 

For  the  Union  makes  us  strong. 

Is  there  aught  we  hold  in  common 

With  the  greedy  parasite, 
Who  would  lash  us  into  serfdom 

And  would  crush  us  with  his  might? 
Is  there  anything  left  for  us 

But  to  organize  and  fight? 

For  the  Union  makes  us  strong. 

It  is  we  who  plowed  the  prairies, 
Built  the  cities  where  they  trade, 

Dug  the  mines,  and  built  the  workshops, 
Endless  miles  of  railroad  laid. 

Now  we  stand  outcast  and  starving 
'Mid  the  wonders  we  have  made; 
But  the  Union  makes  us  strong! 


28 


All  the  world  that's  owned  by  idle  drones, 

Is  ours  and  ours  alone. 
We  have  laid  the  wide  foundations, 

Built  it  skywards  stone  by  srone. 
It  is  ours  and  not  to  slave  in, 

But  to  master  and  to  own, 

While  the  Union  makes  us  strong. 

They  have  taken  untold  millions 
That  they  never  toiled  to  earn, 

But  without  our  brain  and  muscle 
Not  a  single  wheel  can  turn! 

We  can  break  their  galling  shackles — 
Gain  our  freedom  when  we  learn 
That  the  Union  makes  us  strong. 

In  our  hands  is  placed  a  power 
Greater  than  their  greedy  gold — 

Greater  than  the  might  of  armies, 
Magnified  a  thousandfold; 

We  can  bring  to  birth  the  new  world 
From  the  ashes  of  the  old, 

For  the  Union  makes  us  strong! 


29 


THE  PRAWBLEM  SAWLVER 

His  pink  fingers  are  SO  pretty, 
And  he  has  a  bright  and  witty 

Lofty  brow! 

Seems  to  think  that  we  are  slighting 
All  the  wrongs  we're  really  righting, 
And  that  he  does  all  the  fighting, 

Telling  how. 

In  a  condescending  manner, 
He  adopts  the  worker's  banner 

As  his  own. 

He  descends  into  the  gutter, 
Where  we  sweat  for  bread  and  butter 
Saying  things  we  COULD  NOT  utter 

All  alone. 

While  we  work  he  does  the  grunting, 
Always  there  for  glory  hunting, 

Large  or  small. 

Has  there  been  a  row — he  led  it, 
Some  wise  word? — old  high-brow  said  it, 
And  he  always  hogs  the  credit 

For  it  all. 

When  WE  speak  it  is  with  terror, 
Lest  an  inadvertent  error 

He  detect. 

Count  the  foibles  he  abolished, 
All  the  gods  he  has  demolished — 
And  his  language  is  SO  polished 

And  correct! 


30 


Still  I'm  sure  our  friend  so  scathing 
LoVes  our  movement — as  a  plaything 

New  and  rare. 

He  delights  to  solve  each  puzzle 
That  our  common  brains  befuzzle, 
And  to  pry  his  yellow  muzzle 

Everywhere. 

We  rejoice  that  he  can  love  us 
From  the  windy  realms  above  us 

Where  he  flies. 

We  poor  dubs  would  never  doubt  him, 
Not  a  single  thing  about  him, 
But  how  CAN  we  live  without  him 

When  he  dies? 


THE  MINE  GUARD 

You  cur!     How  can  you  stand  so  calm  and  still 
And  careless  while  your  Brothers  strive  and  bleed? 
What  hellish,  cruel,  crime-polluted  creed 

Has  taught  you  thus  to  do  your  master's  will? 

Whose  traitor  dole  has  damned  your  soul  until 
You  lick  his  boots  and  fawn  to  do  his  deed — 
You  pander  to  his  lust  of  boundless  greed 

And  guard  him  while  his  cohorts  crush  and  kill  ? 

Your  sneaking  crimes  are  like  a  rotten  flood — 
The  beating,  raping,  murdering  you've  done — 
You  sycophantic  coward  with  a  gun: 

The  worms  would  scorn  your  carcass  in  the  mud; 
A  bitch  would  blush  to  hail  you  as  a  son — 

You  loathsome  outcast,  red  with  human  blood! 


31 


JOE   HILL 

Murdered  by  the  authorities  of  the  State  of  Utah, 
November  19th,  1915 

High  head  and  back  unbending — fearless  and  true, 
Into  the  night  unending;  why  was  it  you? 

Heart  that  was  quick  with  song,  torn  with  their  lead ; 
Life  that  was  young  and  strong  shattered  and  dead. 

Singer  of  manly  songs  (laughter  and  tears) ; 
Singer  of  Labor's  wrongs,  joys,  hopes  and  fears. 

Though  you  were  one  of  us,  what  could  we  do  ? 
Joe,  there  were  none  of  us  needed  like  you. 

We  gave,  however  small,  what  Life  could  give; 
We  would  have  given  all  that  you  might  live. 

Your  death  you  held  as  nought,  slander  and  shame. 
We  from  the  awful  thought  shrank  as  from  flame. 

Each  of  us  held  his  breath,  tense  with  despair, 
You,  who  were  close  to  Death,  seemed  not  to  care. 

White-handed,  loathsome  Power,  knowing  no  pause, 
Sinking  in  Labor's  flower  murderous  claws! 

Boastful,  with  leering  eyes,  blood  dripping  jaws; 
Accurst  be  the  cowardice  hidden  in  laws! 

Utah  has  drained  your  blood,  white  hands  are  wet. 
We,  of  the  "surging  flood,"  NEVER  FORGET! 

Our  songster!  have  your  laws  now  had  their  fill? 
Know  ye,  his  songs  and  cause  ye  cannot  kill! 

High  head  and  back  unbending  "rebel  true-blue," 
Into  the  night  unending;  why  was  it  you? 

32 


UP  FROM  YOUPv  KNEES 

(Air:  "Song  of  a  Thousand  Years") 

Up  from  your  knees,  ye  cringing  serf  men! 

What  have  ye  gained  by  whines  and  tears? 
Rise!    They  can  never  break  our  spirits 

Though  they  should  try  a  thousand  years. 

CHORUS 

A  thousand  years,  then  speed  the  victory! 

Nothing  can  stop  us  nor  dismay. 
After  the  winter  comes  the  springtime; 

After  the  darkness  comes  the  day. 

Break  ye  your  chains,  strike  off  your  fetters ; 

Beat  them  to  swords,  the  foe  appears  .    . 
Slaves  of  the  world  arise  and  crush  him — 

Crush  him  or  serve  a  thousand  years. 

Join  in  the  fight — the  Final  Battle, 
Welcome  the  fray  with  ringing  cheers. 

These  are  the  times  our  fathers  dreamed  of 
Toiled  to  attain  a  thousand  years. 

Be  ye  prepared,  be  not  unworthy, 
Greater  the  task  when  triumph  nears. 

Master  the  earth,  O  men  of  labor  .    .    , 
Long  have  ye  learned — a  thousand  years! 

Over  the  hills  the  sun  is  rising, 

Out  of  the  gloom  the  light  appears. 

See  at  your  feet  the  world  is  waiting, 
Bought  with  your  blood  a  thousand  years. 


33 


THE  GHOST  WALKS 

I  wonder  if  you  understand 

Why  people  always  say, 
"The  ghost  is  walking"  when  you  go 

To  get  your  hard-earned  pay? 
About  this  thing  your  "pay,"  my  lads, 

I've  got  a  word  to  say: 
'Tis  but  a  "ghost"  that  flits  about 

And  always  flies  away. 

It's  true  that  with  your  horny  hands 

You  labor  every  day, 
Yet  you  get  nothing  but  a  "ghost" 

To  keep  the  wolf  away. 
You  house  the  world  and  clothe  the  world 

And  feed  the  world  each  day, 
Yet  you  get  nothing  but  a  "ghost" 

To  keep  the  wolf  away. 

Your  bosses  are  well-fed  and  fat, 

Their  smiles  are  blithe  and  gay. 
They  do  not  rob  you  with  a  gun, — 

They  have  a  better  way. 
They  have  a  better  way,  my  lads, — 

They  give  a  "ghost"  for  pay; 
You  toil  and  moil  because  you  must, 

They  rob  because  they  may. 


34 


You  see,  the  boss  gives  you  a  "job." 

You  get  so  much  per  day, 
But  you  produce  far  more,  my  lads, 

Than  ever  comes  your  way. 
And  of  this  "product  of  your  toil," 

(I'm  very  sad  to  say) 
You  give  the  "body"  to  the  boss 

And  keep  the  "ghost"  for  "pay". 

But  should  you  wish  to  change  all  this, 
On  some  bright  First  of  May 

Demand  your  product  on  the  job 
The  One  Big  Union  way. 

That  is  your  rightful  pay,  my  lads, — 
The  only  "honest"  pay; 

The  boss  will  then  become  the  "ghost" 

And  soon  he'll  "walk"  away. 


GOOD  SLAVES  AND  SPRINGTIME 

The  whirring  wheels  go  round  and  round, 
The  slaves  speed  on  throughout  the  day. 
More  joyless,  dreamless  things  than  they 

Could  nowhere  on  the  earth  be  found. 

No  other  sight,  no  other  sound, 
No  hope  but  thus  to  always  stay. 

The  whirring  wheels  go  round  and  round, 
The  slaves  speed  on  throughout  the  day. 

Outside,  that  mystery  profound, 
A  breath  of  Spring  from  far  away — 
The  world  wakes  at  the  call  of  May; 
But  here  the  master  smiled  or  frowned, 
The  whirring  wheels  go  round  and  round.  .  . 


35 


A  MEMOPvY 

I  left  you,  you  remember,  singing  there 
Beneath  the  swaying  branches  and  the  sky ; 

The  breeze,  just  stirred  the  sunlight  in  your  hair, 
And  back  of  you  the  stream  went  surging  by. 

Along  the  path  the  violets  were  wet 

And  all  the  hillsides  drenched  with  evening  dew. 
I  strode  on  quickly  that  I  might  forget, 

But  all  the  woods  were  eloquent  of  you. 

Your  fresh  young  beauty  stabbed  me  like  a  knife; 

I  seemed  to  breathe  its  fragrance  everywhere. 
I  wondered  from  this  mad  black  whirl  of  life 

How  anything  on  earth  could  be  so  fair. 

The  fire-fly  now  darts  his  golden  light; 

The  river's  barred  reflections  leap  and  twist ; 
The  frogs  tune  up  their  chorus  for  the  night 

And  all  the  hills  are  melting  into  mist. 

You  seemed  the  soul  of  days  that  used  to  be. 

That  song  of  yours  my  mother  loved  of  yore, 
And  as  you  sang  it  all  came  back  to  me — 

The  dead  America  that  is  no  more. 


36 


ifFEli 


THE  RUBAIYAT  OF  A  HARVEST  STIFF 

Awake!  the  Harvest  Hand  has  found  its  might; 
The  Red  Book  Boys  have  put  the  Foe  to  flight : 

And  lo!  a  soft-pawed  Sabo-Cat  has  caught 
The  "tight- wad"  Boss  who  is  no  longer  "tight." 

For  when  the  cock  crew,  as  in  days  of  yore 
John  Farmer  hammered  on  the  cowshed  door ; 

"Come  on,  you  Bums,"  yelled  he,  "and  go  to  work." 
"Back  up,"  we  said,  "we've  heard  that  noise  before!" 

"Get  up!"  he  howled,  "a  thousand  Bums  each  day 
Beg  me  for  work  and  never  mention  pay." 

"Ah,  yes,  and  when  your  dirty  work  is  done 
They  pack  their  sweaty  duds  and  fade  away! 

And  those  who  harvested  the  golden  grain 

And  toiled  on  through  the  summer  heat  and  rain 

Will  live  on  "flop-house"  charity  and  soup 
Until  you  call  them  to  your  fields  again. 

You  sometimes  think  men  should  not  go  to  bed 
But  rather  toil  until  the  east  is  red, 

Ah,  you'd  be  happy  if  we  served  you  thus, 
And  licked  your  boots  for  but  a  crust  of  bread." 

Why  should  we  toil  till  morning  greets  the  skies 
And  let  each  farmer  gouge  our  guts  that  tries; 

We  learned  our  lesson,  and  we  learned  it  hard 
Before  we  had  the  brains  to  organize. 

37 


It's  all  a  game — these  fields  we  harvest  in; 
The  "Scissor"  loses  ere  he  can  begin. 

But  SOLIDARITY  is  One  Big  Hand 
That  makes  the  Wobbly  always  sure  to  win. 

The  grindstone  always  grinds  the  "Scissors"  nose, 
For  right  or  left  as  bids  the  Boss  he  goes. 

But  ask  some  Wise  One  why  he  organized, 
He  knows  the  reason  why — he  KNOWS — HE  knows! 

The  Moonlight  Monster  said,  "We  don't  agree; 
You  take  the  wage  I  give  or  let  it  be!" 

"All  right,  old  top,  two  bones  and  fifty  cents 
Will  mean  HEADS  DOWN  (we'll  stack  them  right 
for  three!") 

There  is  no  road  too  rough  for  Wooden  Shoes ; 
(There  is  a  Cat  with  CLAWS  that  never  mews!) 

A  little  Direct  Action  on  the  job — 
And  God  Almighty  couldn't  make  us  lose! 

The  Shoe  that  can  with  logic  absolute 

The  "Scissor"  slave  and  "Scissor"  boss  confute — 

The  mighty  Talisman  that  in  a  trice 
Can  Toil's  Tin  Wages  into  gold  transmute. 

So  leave  the  Wind-Bags  wrangle — let  them  be 
To  slaughter  gods  and  spout  philosophy; 

The  Wobbly  has  the  Way  to  get  the  Goods 
And  that's  the  thing  that  interests  you  and  me. 

For  when  John  Farmer's  crops  are  stacked  up  fine, 
Then  every  single  rebel  down  the  line 

Can  say  (thanks  to  the  Red  Book  and  the  Cat) 
I've  got  my  share,  you  "Scissors" — I've  got  mine! 


38 


And  you,  Good  Slaves,  who  always  prowl  around 
To  work  for  "chuck"  and  sleep  upon  the  ground, 

You  cannot  ride  or  eat  or  work  with  us; 
The  reasoh  is  WE  WANT  NO  SCABS  AROUND. 

I  heard  a  "shack"  of  some  Wild  Wobblies  tell, 
Christ,  but  they're  rough;  those  Harvest  Hands  are 

Hell;- 

Beware  of  gangs  that  sing  those  rowdy  songs  .    .    . 
(He's  learned  his  lesson,  boys,  he'll  treat  us  well.) 

There  are  some  "stick-up"  mugs  with  fancy  eyes, 
And  many  a  Sheriff,  too,  has  been  put  wise ; 

The  old  Town  Clown  respects  us  as  he  should — 
Us  Stick-Together  Boys  that  organize. 

And  thou  who  didst  with  Poker  and  with  Gin 
Infest  the  Jungles  I  have  slumbered  in; 

You'll  have  to  find  some  better  way  than  this 
To  take  away  MY  little  store  of  Tin. 

Once  in  the  Harvest  Field  at  Dusk  of  Day 
A  "Scissor"  stiff  toiled  on — the  "Scissor"  way; 

I  tapped  him  on  his  sweaty  shirt  and  said : 
"Ah,  gently,  Brother,  gently  pray. 

Why  work  so  hard  for  wheat  you'll  never  taste? 
(Next  Winter  in  the  Soup-Line  you'll  be  placed.) 

So  help  us  make  John  Farmer  come  across, 
And  if  he  doesn't,  Brother,  why  make  haste? 

Ah,  when  his  crop  is  in  and  you  should  pass 
John  Farmer's  gate  he'd  kick  you  in  the  pants; 

So  join  us  now  and  wear  a  Red  Book,  too, 
And  win  the  world  for  both  yourself  and  class." 

HOOKUM  HA  I. 

39 


U 


MEXICO 

O,  how  I  long  for  you,  golden-hued  Mexico, 

Cool  of  your  mountains  and  mists  of  your  streams! 

Breathe  I  a  song  for  you,  flower-starred  Mexico 
Plaintively  cruel  with  joy-tortured  dreams. 

Love  thoughts  endure  of  you,  passionate  Mexico; 

Hot  in  my  blood  they  are  quivering  yet. 
Thrilled  with  the  lure  of  you,  legended  Mexico, 

Those  who  have  seen  you  can  never  forget. 

O,  the  bright  gleam  of  you,  sun-ravished  Mexico, 
Warm  with  a  wonder  divinely  your  own; 

O,  how  I  dream  of  you,  odorous  Mexico, 
How  like  an  exile  I  wander  alone! 

Humbly  I  burn  to  you,  exotic  Mexico, 

Incense  of  love  to  your  tropical  sky. 
I  shall  return  to  you,  glorious  Mexico, 

Blessing  my  thralldom  if  only  to  die. 


40 


THE  JUNGLE  STREAM 

Dull  fog — grey  veil  enfolding  all, 
Dim  buildings,  lurid  sunbeam  kissed, 
A  skyline  rising  into  mist 
Where  coiling  vapors  writhe  and  twist 

And  dismal  dun-toned  shadows  fall. 

Grim  tugs  that  plow  the  grimy  stream 
With  waves  cut  fanwise  by  the  keel ; 
A  bridge,  etched  bold  in  lines  of  steel 
And  smudged  with  swarming  crowds  that  reel 

Like  dizzy  phantoms  through  a  dream. 

Damp  breeze  that  brings  a  fetid  smell, 
A  roar  that  waxes  loud  and  lulls. 
Far  down  below  the  grey-wing  gulls 
Soar  round  the  gloomy  steamer  hulls, 

All  blurred  within  a  hazy  hell. 

The  clanging  clamour  swells  afar ; 

The  strife- worn  mobs  rush  madly  by; 

The  ghostly  city  towers  high, 

But,  distant  in  the  fading  sky, 
In  holy  silence  gleams  one  star. 


41 


THE  SLAVE  THE  NAUTCH  GIRL 
AND  THE  COBRA 

From  the  Spanish 

Leap!  spring!  writhing  thing! 

This  hooded  serpent  crawls 
Rhythmic  at  my  command. 

Blaze  burn! 

Great  King! 
Now  silent  evening  falls 

Over  the  pallid  sand, 

The  pallid  sand     .    .    . 
Come,  wild  one,  twist  and  turn, 
Heed  that  my  grace  you  earn, 
Haste  that  thy  hate  I  learn, 

To  madness  fanned! 

Bend!  swing!  laughing,  sing! 

Madder  the  music  make — 
Whirl  like  the  wind  and  sway  .    .    . ! 

More  fleet  .    .    . ! 

Great  King, 
See  how  my  heart  will  break, 

Love  her  none  other  may. 

None  other  may! 
Jeweled  her  tinkling  feet, 
Red  are  her  lips  and  sweet, 
Breasts  where  her  girdles  meet 

White  as  the  moon  are  they  .    .    . 

O,  white  are  they! 


Writhe!  sting!  deadly  thing! 

Quick  was  his  hooded  head 
Self  rlain  in  anguish  grand. 

Ah!  see! 

Great  King, 

Behold  him  dead  and  still — 
Dead  on  the  pallid  sand  .    . 

What  with  the  fire  in  me, 
Slave  I  can  never  be; 
See  me,  then,  dead  or  free 
By  my  own  handl 


THE  KANAWHA  STRIKER 

Good  God!  Must  I  now  meekly  bend  my  head 
And  cringe  back  to  that  gloom  I  know  so  well? 
Forget  the  wrongs  my  tongue  may  never  tell, 

Forget  the  plea  they  silenced  with  their  lead, 

Forget  the  hillside  strewn  with  murdered  dead 
Where  once  they  drove  me — mocked  me  when  I  fell 
All  black  and  bloody  by  their  holes  of  hell, 

While  all  my  loved  ones  wept  uncomforted? 

Is  this  the  land  my  fathers  fought  to  own — 
Here  where  they  curse  me — beaten  and  alone? 

But  God,  it's  cold!    My  children  sob  and  cry! 
Shall  I  go  back  into  the  mines  and  wait, 
And  lash  the  conflagration  of  my  hate — 

Or  shall  I  stand  and  fight  them  till  I  die? 


43 


WHAT  HAPPENED  IN  THE  HOLLOW 

This  story  may  of  interest  be,  although  its  none  too 

nice — 
The  story  of  a  mine-guard  thug  who  had  to  pay  the 

price. 
You  know  well,  boys,  the  kind  I  mean,  they'd  steal 

an  orphan's  shoes 
Or  sell  their  mother's  honor  for  a  swig  of  rot-gut 

booze. 
They  are  the  watch-dogs,  so  its  claimed,  of  property 

and  life, 
And  yet  they  rob  and  rape  and  kill ;  grow  prosperous 

on  strife. 
They  carry  "gats"  to  "get  you"  and  "knucks"  to 

crack  your  jaw 

Yet  live  in  fat  security,  protected  by  the  "Law" — 
The  law  that  is  for  Parasites  steel  bars  to  clutch  their 

prey 
And  for  the  workers  of  the  world  the  Club  that  means 

"obey"! 

This  tale  is  of  Kanawha  when  the  strike  was  getting 

hot, 
And  some  men  worked  and  some  men  scabbed  and 

many  men  were  shot. 
The  men  who  scabbed  were  living  hard,  the  men  at 

work  scabbed  too, 
Although  they  said  "the  'contract'  left  them  nothing 

else  to  do." 
The  men  on  strike  resisted  well,  of  that  there  is  no 

doubt; 

44 


Though  "union  men"  hauled  in  the  scabs  and  hauled 

the  scab  coal  out. 
The  outside  miners  sent  in  grub  and  shoes  and  all 

the  like 
And  then  went  back  into  the  mines  and  helped  to 

break  the  strike. 
For  these  two  things  have  always  helped  to  keep  us 

in  the  ditch: 
The  "contracts"  of  our  unions  and  the  hirelings  of 

the  rich. 

Now  Jurgot  was  this  mine-guard's  name  (for  treason 

to  his  class 
He  had  to  pay)  and  you  will  hear  just  how  it  came 

to  pass. 

They  came  to  drive  us  from  those  shacks  the  Oper- 
ators' own 
And  on  the  dusty  county  road  our  goods  were  being 

thrown. 
The  Baldwins  did  the  dirty  work  with  Yellow-legs 

on  guard — 
A  bunch  of  low  scab-herding  curs  before  each  miner's 

yard! 

And  what  was  left  for  us  to  do  but  just  to  stand  aside 
And  let  them  finish  up  the  job — and  swallow  down 

our  pride? 
They'd  thrown  us  out — we  knew  they  would — and 

we  could  hit  the  pike, 
Our  masters  could  do  everything  except  to  break^our 

strike. 
They  had  the  courts,  the  guards,  the  guns,  the  earth 

— without,  within — 
But  we  had  one  another  and  a  fighting  chance  to  win! 

Bill  Parson's  house  they  came  to  last;  it  was  the 
farthest  down, 


And  Bill  they  feared  and  hated  more  than  any  man 

in  town. 
Bill  had  a  fist  as  hard  as  rock,  he  measured  six  feet 

two; 
And  we  were  kind  of  wondering  to  know  what  Bill 

would  do. 
Big  Gurgot  came  and  banged  his  fist  and  rattled  at 

Bill's  door; 
The  two  had  met  and  Gurgot  burned  to  settle  up  the 

score. 
When  Bill  appeared  he  didn't  seem  to  be  surprised  at 

all, 
His  woman  stood  beside  him  there,  and  Buddy,  slim 

and  tall. 
"Come  out  of  this,  it's  time  to  move;  you've  got  no 

business  here!" 
Said  Jurgot,   and  he  curled  his  lip  into  a  wolfish 

sneer.     .     .     . 
Bills  fists  were  clenched,   his  knuckle  bones  were 

slowly  growing  white. 
His  jaw  was  set,  his  eyes  grew  cold;  we  feared  there'd 

be  a  fight 
Bill  knew  too  well  the  penalty  to  play  into  their 

game, 
He  sniffed  and  smiled  an  ugly  smile,  but  came  out 

just  the  same. 
We  knew  that  this  was  hard  for  Bill — we  knew  it 

made  him  sore, 
For  he  had  licked  that  Baldwin  pup  a  time  or  two 

before. 

And  we,  we  saw  the  bluish  glint  upon  each  army  gun 
We  felt  the  menace  of  their  lead  and  cursed  them, 

every  one. 
And  we  knew  that  somewhere  handy  a  machine  gun 

stand  was  set 


46 


rrr^rr  — 


With  the  starry  flag  above  it — to  be  used  should  we 

forget, — 
And  that  somewhere  chained  and  hidden  with  the 

yellow-legs  in  town 
Were  a  dozen  dainty  blood-hounds  that  would  gladly 

hunt  us  down. 
Then  two  Kanawha  cossacks  came  to  where  Bill 

Parsons  stood, 
They  grabbed  him  tight  on  either  arm  to  make  sure 

he'd  be  good. 
Said  Bill,  "Don't  fret,  I  won't  fight  yet,  I  know  what 

I'm  about; 
But  wait  till  spring  and  hear  me  sing  to  see  the  leaves 

come  out. 
We'll  make  you  pay,  remember  that,  for  all  the  dirt 

you  do, 
And  when  the  hills  are  not  so  bare  we'll  settle  up 

with  you!" 
The  dough-boys  knew  what  Bill  meant,  they  gathered 

round  him  thick, — 
The  very  thought  of  leafy  hills  would  always  make 

them  sick. 
And  then  it  happened,  that  one  thing  that  lashed  us 

like  a  goad, 
They  took  Bill's  woman  by  the  arm  and  dragged  her 

to  the  road. 
Big  Jurgot  jerked  her  brutally  and  swung  her  half 

around 
And  when  she  cursed  him  in  her  pain  he  knocked  her 

to  the  ground.     .     .     . 
But  Bill's  boy  Buddy,  like  a  flash,  sprang  over  where 

she  fell ; 
"I'll  fix  you  yet,  you  Baldwin  cur,  I'll  send  your  soul 

to  hell!" 

Big   Jurgot   cowered   back   afraid   of   brave   young 
Buddy's  eye, 

47 


VI 


He  knew  that  like  a  tiger  cub  the  kid  would  fight  and 

die.     .     .     . 

Then  Bill  took  one  terrific  lunge  straight  at  the  rat- 
faced  hound, 
He  smashed  him  square  upon  the  eye  and  sprawled 

him  to  the  ground! 
Then  all  the  mine-guards  grappled  Bill,  before  he 

could  resist 
They  overpowered  him  and  snapped  a  bracelet  on 

each  wrist. 
And  Jurgot,  coward  that  he  was,  when  helped  back 

to  his  place, 
He  held  his  battered  ugly  eye  and  struck  Bill  in  the 

face.     .     .     . 
We  saw  Bill's  muscles  bulge  and  strain,  we  saw  him 

reel  and  sway. 
They  dragged  him  to  the  bull-pen  then  and  locked 

him  safe  away. 

We  saw  the  cruel  bluish  glint  upon  each  army  gun, 
We  felt  the  menace  of  their  lead  and  cursed  them, 

every  one. 

From  this  time  on  we  had  no  word,  no  single  trace 

of  Bill, 
And  now  our  tents  were  clustered  at  the  bottom  of 

the  hill. 
But  in  about  a  week,  I  think,  one  grey  and  rainy  day 

A  striker  came  into  our  camp  and  said,  "Bill's  got 

away!" 
Soon  came  the  guards  to  look  for  him,  and  each  one 

armed  to  kill; 
Scab-herders   came   and   yellow-legs,  and   each  one 

after  Bill! 
It  always  happens  just  this  way  whenever  slaves 

rebel. 


48 


The  Powers  that  Be  unloose  on  them  the  very  scum 
of  Hell! 

We  thought  of  how  we'd  like  to  go  to  help  Bill  get 

away 
But  knew  their  eyes  and  lights  and  guns  were  on  us 

night  and  day. 
We  saw  the  wig-wam  village  of  the  tin-horn  crew 

near  by 
And  we  knew  the  one  of  us  that  went  was  pretty  sure 

to  die. 
That  night  we  heard  the  baying  dogs,  a  lonesome 

shot  or  two, 
While  Mrs.  Parsons,  horror-eyed,  sobbed  on  the  whole 

night  through. 
We  heard  the  sentry's  answering  call,  the  brooklet 

gurgling  near, 
And  red,  red  thoughts  went  through  our  brains,  some 

dim  and  others  clear. 
But  little  Buddy,  all  alone  bent  over  Bill's  old  gun; 

He  oiled  it  up  and  polished  it — and  waited  for  the  sun. 

The  mine-guards  came  next  morning  and  they  brought 

Bill  to  the  door, 
They  had  him  in  a  blanket  that  was  spotted  red  with 

gore. 
And  Mrs.  Parsons  didn't  weep  as  lots  of  women  would 

But  she  had  such  a  look  on  her  that  made  us  wish  we 

could. 
She  stroked  Bill's   white  and  rigid  face,   her  eyes 

looked  far  away 

Well!   We  all  got  together  then  we  had  a  plan  to  lay. 

When  Jurgot   came   a   swaggering   up   in   front   of 
every  one 

49 


He  had  blood  upon  his  khaki  coat  and  powder  on 

his  gun. 
"I  said  to  him"  he  boasted  loud  "the  hills  or  bull-pen 

which? 
He  took  the  hills  and  so  did  we,  I  fixed  the  son  of  a 

bitch!" 
Then  Buddy  raised  his  father's  gun,  but  Jurgot  saw  his 

game, 
He  quickly  flashed  his  fourty  two  and  took  a  steady 

aim 

But  Mrs.  Parsons  ran  between  and  screamed  "what 

would  you  do, 
You've  killed  my  Buddy's  father;  would  you  kill  my 

Buddy  too?" 
Poor  Bill!  his  wife  and  kid,  O  hell! — what  can  a 

fellow  say; 

It  was  this  sight  that  made  us  glad  that  we  had 
found  a  way. 

That  very  night  saw  Jurgot  drunk  and  saw   him 

leave  for  town, 
He  had  two  barren  hills  to  cross,  we  knew  them  up 

and  down. 
We  knew  his  doom  was  settled  for  at  some  time  soon 

or  late 
He'd  have  to  leave  the  camp  alone  —  and  then  he 

sealed  his  fate. 
Our  crowd  they  couldn't  blame  at  all  —  they  knew 

right  where  we  were, 

And  none  of  us   was  paid   to  watch  their  profit- 
guarding  cur. 
The  night  grew  very  calm  and  still  as  on  his  way 

he  went, 
But  nought  seemed  strange  about  our  camp,  each 

lamp  was  in  its  tent. 
And  he  walked  on  in  confidence  as  if  he  felt  secure 

50 


With  the  strikers  power  broken  and  a  trigger  finger 

sure. 

His  "gat"  was  in  his  pocket,  he  could  "legally"  get  by, 
And  the  miners  had  to  cringe  before  his  hate-enven- 
omed eye. 
Why  should  he  fear  the  living  when  he  had  not  feared 

the  dead 
With   a   government   machine-gun   on   the   hill-top 

overhead  ? 
We  said  "Don't  fret,  we'll  get  you  yet;  we  know 

what  we're  about, 
But  we  won't  wait  and  starve  our  hate  until  the 

leaves  come  out 
We'll  make  you  pay,  remember  that,  for  all  the  dirt 

you've  done, 
And  your  black  soul  will  be  in  hell  before  tomorrow's 

sun!" 
He  headed  for  the  hollow  and  he  swaggered  as  he 

went  — 
This   martyr   to   his   master's   rifle-guarded    twelve 

percent. 

Next  morning  came  the  soldiers  for  to  find  out  what 

we  knew, 
And  of  course  we  only  asked  them  what  in  hell  could 

miners  do 
When  the  hills  are  full  of  yellow-legs,  their  rifles  full 

of  lead 
And    a    murderous    machine-gun    teaching    caution 

overhead. 
They  pleaded  with  each  one  of  us  to  kindly  tell  them 

all; 
We  'lowed  as  how  their  friend  got  drunk  and  likely 

had  a  fall. 
We  saw  that  gleaming  bluish  glint  upon  each  army 

gun 

51 


And  we  knew  just  what  would  happen,  could  they 

blame  a  single  one, 
We  knew  they'd  have  a  carnival  without  a  bit  of 

doubt; 
They  always  like  to  fight  that  way  —  before  the 

leaves  come  out. 

They  laid  some  crafty  traps  for  us  to  trip  and  stum- 
ble in, 
But  when  we  stick  together,  hell!   How  can  we  help 

but  win? 
They  went  away,  without  their  prey — they  could  not 

gather  toll; 

Of  all  they  do  with  bayonets  they  cannot  dig  for  coal. 
The  coal  that  Nature  planted  there  for  folks  like  me 

and  you 
And  not  to  yield  up  twelve  percent  to  Mammon's 

favored  few! 


52 


THE  ALARM 

From  the  blackness  of  Toil's  degradation 
In  the  mine  and  the  mill  and  the  farm, 

O'er  the  gulf  of  a  dead  generation 

Comes  the  newly-born  voice  of  Alarm. 

Tis  the  voice  of  the  dead  in  the  living, 
An  appeal  to  the  brain  and  the  arm, 

'Tis  the  voices  of  murdered  men  giving 
New  life  to  the  cry  of  Alarm. 

Though  the  Tyrant  is  glutted  and  lustful, 
And  protected  by  law's  mystic  charm, 

Yet  his  slumbering  slaves  are  distrustful, 
They  have  hearkened  and  heard  the  Alarm. 

And  he  fears  that  his  power  is  shaken 
That  was  mighty  to  maim  and  to  harm; 

That  his  serf-men  who  slept  will  awaken 
At  the  Call  of  Revolt — the  Alarm ; 

That  his  world  with  its  bleak  desolation 
Will  be  shattered  by  Labor's  strong  arm ; 

That  the  slumbering  slaves  of  the  nation 
Will  UNITE  at  the  sound  of  Alarm. 


53 


KISMET 

You  can't  escape  our  scorn 
No  matter  how  you  try! 

Blue-blood,  patrician  born, 
Proud  and  serene  on  high. 

Big-bellied,  overfed, 

Gore-sucker,  gourged  and  red, 

Swollen  with  Labor's  dead — 
You  can't  escape  our  scorn 
No  matter  how  you  try! 

You  can't  escape  our  wrath 
No  matter  how  you  try. 
See!  how  it  blocks  your  path, 

Too  much  alive  to  die; 
We,  whom  you  gouge  today, 
We,  too,  have  found  a  way — 
Soon  we  shall  make  you  pay! 
You  can't  escape  our  wrath 
No  matter  how  you  try. 

You  can't  escape  our  hate 
No  matter  how  you  try. 

Hard  seated  by  your  gate, 
One  of  us  doomed  to  die. 

Think  you  our  hands  are  loath? 

Snarl  out  your  final  oath, 

Earth  cannot  hold  us  both — 
You  can't  escape  our  hate 
No  matter  how  you  try! 


You  can't  escape  your  fate 
No  matter  how  you  try — 

Red  wrath  and  scorn  and  hate — 
Nemesis  ever  nigh; 

Nor  can  your  gallow-tree 

Hold  back  the  rising  sea, 

YOU'VE  NO  EXCUSE  TO  BE- 
You  can't  escape  your  fate 
No  matter  how  you  try! 


55 


The   press-work  on  this  book  done  by  R.  G.  Horn 
erstwhile  pressman  of  I.  W.  W.  Publishing  Bureau. 


DATE  DUE 


PRINTED  IN  U.S.A. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


